


(Not) Just a Cook

by HydraNoMago



Series: Manor House [2]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series), Buzzfeed: Worth It (Web Series)
Genre: Actual episode dialogue, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Ambition, Awkwardness, Dorks in Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Food, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Loneliness, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Standrew - Freeform, shyan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:55:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24128503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HydraNoMago/pseuds/HydraNoMago
Summary: “You could have rang for one of the maids, you know,” he grouched as he held out a hand for the bread, and which Steven handed over with a longing look at. It was endearing.“I didn’t want to trouble anyone,” Steven said, watching as Andrew sliced the bread on the chopping board and began pulling out some cold meats from the ice box.Steven, the perfectionist meets Andrew, a cook in the Bergara household. Pining and developing love ensues.
Relationships: Andrew Ilnyckyj/Steven Lim, Ryan Bergara/Shane Madej
Series: Manor House [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741003
Comments: 23
Kudos: 94





	(Not) Just a Cook

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the Standrew side of the Victorian AU! 
> 
> It can be read as a standalone, but please do refer to the fic in this series before this one for the full experience. 
> 
> Special thanks to all the commenters before this who voted a yea on this pairing and for your kind words!

* * *

He wanted to be someone. For as long as he could remember, he had set his sights on something beyond what he was; he wanted to be someone who others could look up to, wanted to be the hero that he never had when he was younger. He was afraid of disappearing from this world without leaving a mark; merely dissolving into the air like a bubble which hovers on the surface of a pristine lake before popping out of existence, merging with the greater waters below.

But in order to achieve his goal, he had to make plenty of sacrifices; he knew that much, he wasn’t stupid, contrary to what other people mocked him for behind his back. Picking on the faded and thinned threads of the bracelet from what seemed to be ages ago, he was sure of one thing: This wasn’t a sacrifice he was willing to make.

* * *

He was sixteen when he arrived with a valise and several suitcases at the Bergara household. Part of the Lim family tradition, direct children from the line would be sent off to another household when they came of age, as to train them in diplomatic relations and to prepare them for the wider world. Steven’s older brother, Alvin, went through the same process when he turned 16; and so has their ancestors before him; and so had their ancestors before them.

That however, did not mean that Steven was as brave as them. He was welcomed warmly by Lord Steven Bergara and his wife Lady Linda Bergara; the former gave him a few strong smacks on the back which almost toppled him over while the latter had a tendency to pinch his cheeks and go on about their own sons, Jacob and Ryan. Steven nodded at every other statement and smiled politely all the way, his hands still clasped tightly on the handle of his valise which he refused to let anyone else carry.

He would have to meet the family during supper, when both Jacob and Ryan returned from their trip. When Steven timidly enquired where they were, Lady Linda shook her head fondly and waved a hand in the air. “Exploring, if you could believe it," and the matter was left at that. He was shown to his room by a maid, and all his other suitcases were lined up neatly at the end of the bed. As the door closed with a finality, Steven jumped onto the bed and buried his face in the downy pillow without taking in the decorations or facilities.

He was tired; not only from the long journey he had had to make, with the carriage bouncing him around everywhere; he was tired of being someone who he was not. Playing the part of the valiant, talented and dutiful son without so much as a small slip up. He had to be perfect in every way, every hour of every day; except in these private moments which he hoarded like a hermit who is given food.

Speaking of, his stomach growled angrily at him for being neglected. He missed the food at home already; it was different in this part of the country where the weather was more often than not warm. It stood to reason then, that the food here too differed greatly. He huffed a lethargic exhale as he forced himself to sit up. Maybe he could go into the kitchen for something, he was sure his hosts would hardly want him to starve. The only thing he was worried about was them making a big production over it; he chanced a look at the ancient clock, slightly after two in the afternoon. Hopefully the cooks saved scraps.

* * *

The kitchen at least, was a place of familiarity to Steven. He liked watching food made, was fascinated with how it went from bland, raw ingredients to dishes like jewel boxes on the dining table. The cooks back home loved to have Steven around as well, constantly plying him with morsels of it before it all went on display for whatever feast was being prepared. An added benefit was Steven’s palette, which they all counted on for taste tests; if Steven said it was bad, then it was. If Steven said was good however, they would whip up an extra batch, for it would be the most demanded dish of the feast.

Poking his head into the kitchen (which he eventually reached after a multitude of asking fordirections and of wrong turns), he marvelled at how much more at home he felt just by looking at it. Something was cooking in a metal pot over the fire, steam rising up in a white column towards the rafters, but he saw no one there. “Hello?” Steven called, then knocked lightly on the wooden frame of the doorway; but there was no answer.

Wary and cautious of overstepping boundaries, Steven had an internal debate about the morals of entering someone else’s area without permission; but his stomach won out at last by emitting a growl loud enough to echo in the wide space. “Alright, alright,” Steven mumbled under his breath, stepping into the kitchen completely. He did not want to touch the pot, for fear of disrupting the process, and rooted in the overhead cabinets instead. There were a variety of pots and pans stacked atop one another, bags of flour, yeast in small pouches, and jars of jam which shone brilliantly when shafts of sunlight hit it. Beautiful, but not enough to satisfy his hunger.

He opened another cabinet, short of stuffing his whole head in, and found a loaf of grainy bread tucked behind tall jars of yellowish-green pickles. Whooping in delight, he extracted his meal and slammed the door of the cabinet closed; only to scream like a maiden when he saw a face appear right beside him.

Dead eyes, a heavy frown, and a knife _oh my god it’s a knife_ in hand. The other person narrowed his eyes at him, and in the most monotonous voice he had ever heard, bit out a “What do you think you’re doing.”

Steven could _hear_ that the sentence ended in a period, not a question mark. It was a statement, an accusation. His heart still pounding from the shot of adrenaline, he sputtered out his apologies, hands flailing everywhere, something they tended to do when he was extra nervous. The other person was impassive as a statue, and his dead gaze was unsettling, which caused Steven to overcompensate for the awkwardness of the situation by divulging who he was, where he came from, what was he doing here, et cetera., et cetera.

At the mention of his name, the other’s eyes widened minutely, and stopped his rant with a raised hand; something Steven did not notice until he was halfway into narrating how awful the ride over was. When Steven’s word vomit finally came to a screeching halt, the other teen opened his mouth as if to say something, but immediately closed it again, and pinched the area between his brows. “You’re Steven Lim? From the Lim family?” he grated out, to which Steven nodded at, a mile a minute. The other teen forced a smile onto his face, which made it considerably scarier and gave Steven a little bow. “Andrew Ilnyckyj, I’m one of the cooks here. I apologise for not noticing earlier."

It took Steven a few solid seconds before it clicked in his brain, and he then he was hastily shaking his hands at Andrew’s bowed form. “No! It’s not a big issue! I’m sorry for sneaking around in the first place, so uh, please can you stop bowing?” he finished lamely.

Andrew did as he was told, and when he lifted his head, Steven swore he saw the hint of anamused, upturned smile. “Well then, young master,”

“Please don’t call me that,” Steven sighed as he cut in forcefully. He took a long blink to clear the oncoming rush of complicated emotions. “Steven, is fine.”

“But, young master, it isn’t very appropriate—”

“I know, but,” Steven looked at him imploringly, desperation tinging his voice. “please?” He added an awkward laugh to ease the tension which sounded hollow even to Andrew’s ears, but stuck his hand out for a shake.

Andrew nodded carefully, somewhat wary of startling Steven and having him bolt off like a frightened animal. “As you wish,” he replied easily, taking the proffered hand. “Steven.”

Steven gave him a half-sure smile in return. “Andrew.”

An odd feeling of warmth curled in the pit of Andrew’s gut, but he paid it no mind. Instead, he eyed the day-old bread still hanging from Steven’s other hand. “Were you going to eat just that?” At Steven’s sheepish smile of admission, Andrew clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in disapproval. “You could have rang for one of the maids, you know,” he grouched as he held out a hand for the bread, and which Steven handed over with a longing look at. It was endearing.

“I didn’t want to trouble anyone,” Steven said, watching as Andrew sliced the bread on the chopping board and began pulling out some cold meats from the ice box. He heated up a pan and flipped the meats onto it with a drizzle of oil, then sliced up some cucumbers which were resting in a copper bowl in the sink. The sizzling of the meats and steady thwack of the knife against the board made the kitchen come alive, and lighted a feeling of nostalgia in Steven who smiled at it all.

Unscrewing the lid on a jar of homemade pickles, Andrew asked over his shoulder, “Do you take pickles in a sandwich?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Steven replied, startled from his serene state. “Why do you ask?”

“Some people don’t,” Andrew shrugged, layering the sandwich with meats, cucumbers, tomatoes and three pickles each. He broke off a sprig of parsley from the pot in the window sill and placed it on top of the bread which was quickly soaking up the oil, and gestured for Steven to sit at the table. Steven obligingly did, and Andrew cleared a spot with his free hand before serving up the sandwiches to him.

He waited until Steven took the first bite, just to see what his reaction was. He chuckled at Steven’sspeed in grabbing a sandwich and stuffing it into his mouth. Steven groaned in delight and relief, munching slowly and savouring it before swallowing. “This,” he punctuated by holding the sandwich up as if it were the holy grail, “is absolutely delicious!”

Andrew felt a creeping blush on the back of his neck and in the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat and busied himself with the kettle to make a pot of tea. “I’m glad that you find it agreeable.”

“Agreeable?” Steven practically shrieked. “Andrew, this isn’t merely agreeable, it is wonderful!” He took another bite just to prove his point, even though Andrew’s back was still to him. Around a mouthful, he mumbled “This is the best sandwich I have ever tasted. Period.”

He poured the boiling water into the teapot with shaking hands, something that hadn’t happened since the first time he spilled it all on the kitchen floor. “You do know how to exaggerate,” he remarked offhandedly, determined not to be swayed by flippant praises. Steven was just hungry. It affected his taste buds. Nothing more to it.

He heard Steven gasp in mock hurt. “How dare you accuse me of that, good sir?” Andrew leaned against the countertop and crossed his arms to face Steven. If there was a small smile on his face, neither commented on it. Steven lifted a sandwich into the air and said with the utmost solemnity, “I now name thee King of Sandwiches, and your most sacred duty would be to be devoured.” Here he stared at the sandwich and caressed it lovingly. “By me,” he whispered. 

At that, Andrew couldn’t bottle his laughter anymore, and it spilled out in bursts into the confines of the kitchen. Steven laughed at the ridiculousness of it too, and smiled at the laughing Andrew who pinched the area between his brows, and _oh wow, he looks beautiful when he laughs_.

“You’re foolish,” and even though the pitch and tone of Andrew’s voice remained the same, the mirth in his eyes gave it away. Steven shrugged simply, and returned to the task of filling his stomach. He felt warmth in his cheeks and was much more comfortable than when he first arrived. “Food does help break the ice,” he mumbled around another mouthful, which Andrew miraculously caught and nodded his agreement.

He was served tea in a dainty teacup with a small ceramic pot of sugar; both items contrasted sharply with his initial impression of Andrew’s rough exterior so much that he almost choked himself by swallowing too fast. Andrew patted his back and handed him the tea, which he took gratefully. He had a sinking feeling that this would not be the last time that Andrew would be the death of him.

* * *

Dinner was a lavish affair; the Bergaras evidently asked the kitchen to spare no detail. The feast displayed on the long dining table could have fed a village, and Steven felt a stab of guilt at that. Here they were, enjoying all of life’s riches, while others were starving on the streets. It wasn’t right, but he kept his smile on throughout the whole affair.

Sat across from him was Ryan Bergara, the youngest heir to the household, and his peer in age. The other teen was quite sullen, he poked at his food with a fork and ate very little, much to the chagrin of his mother who chastised him lightly for it. Jacob shook his head and nudged him to eat more, but Ryan kept to his silence. He exchanged only polite greetings with Steven, and was not in the mood to make friends with anyone.

Linda took it upon herself to apologise for her son’s behaviour, but Steven rushed to reassure her that it wasn’t any trouble at all, that everyone had their good and bad days, and he was sure that the brothers were tired after their exploration that afternoon. Linda trilled and pinched his cheek, remarking with thinly veiled arrows towards her own sons on what a perfect gentleman Steven was. He saw the brothers eye him with narrowed and resentful gazes behind thin smiles; it was what always happened. Being too good had its downsides as well.

* * *

Steven had never been the type to do well in unfamiliar environments. He tossed and turned in his bed frantically, twisted into every sleeping position he knew, but could not get comfortable enough to drift into sleep. Once or twice, he thought he heard a rattling from the cupboard, but dared not open it for fear of what horrors that may await. The wind picked up occasionally, bending the branches which looked like the shadowed hands of monsters at the window. Steven shuddered and gathered his courage to pull the heavy curtains shut, then slumped back down onto the bed with his face in his hands.

He had to acknowledge that in all probability, he would not be getting any sleep that night. _Unless_ ,the voice in his mind rang, persistent and clear. _Unless you go somewhere familiar. Calm down and relax enough._

He huffed a breath of defeat and padded across the room to pull on his boots.

* * *

The kitchen was an island of light in the darkness. Steven remembered the route to it partially, and was grateful that he had to only backtrack less than eight times to arrive here. He heard the metallic clanging of pots and pans as he neared the entrance, and the smell of the fare from dinner permeated the area. Sticking his head into the kitchen from the doorway, he caught the tail-end of someone leaving from the backdoor; and saw Andrew at the sink, sleeves of his shirt rolled up above his elbows and hands in it. He gulped in order to dispel the sudden dryness in his throat and knocked on the wooden doorframe, startling the other.

He fluttered his fingers in lieu of a wave and Andrew rolled his eyes at him. “Was dinner not satisfying enough for you?” he teased, forearms covered in suds. “Sorry to say, I’m a tad busy at the moment.”

Steven stuck his tongue out at the remark, earning a bark of laughter from the other. “Dinner was great, thank you,” he said sincerely, which made heat pool in Andrew’s cheeks. “Can I help?” he asked, pointing to the stacks of dishes in the sink.

“Let’s see,” Andrew sang, before fixing him with a deadpanned stare. “No.”

“But why?” Steven whined mockingly, kicking dirt at Andrew’s shoes, which caused the blond to flick soap suds at him. “Because it’s not your job,” came the matter-of-fact reply. Andrew continued washing the dishes and ignoring Steven’s admittedly very adorable pout. _Adorable? What is wrong with you? Get a grip now._

“Let me help, Andrew,” Steven rolled up his sleeves, and elbowed his way into the sink; swiping a washcloth off the faucet and scrubbing at the dishes. Andrew shot him an annoyed look, but at Steven’s tenacity he acquiesced tiredly. “Fine. Just please try not to break anything.”

“Who do you think I am?” he asked with his brows in his hairline, nudging Andrew with an elbow which the other blocked with his own. “I’ve learnt to wash dishes before, I’m not a princess.”

“Oh really?” Andrew drawled, running the lid of a pot underneath the tap. “I couldn’t tell.”

Steven squinted his eyes at him and flicked the suds into his face, causing him to sputter and return the favour; which in turn dissolved into an all-out war. By the last dish, their top halves were soaked in water and quickly disappearing bubbles. “Ugh,” Steven groaned, pinching at his wet and sticking shirt.

“Don’t you _ugh_ me,” Andrew groused, feeling grosser the longer he stood with the front of his shirt cold and sticking. “You started this,” he pointed at Steven as he went to the fireplace to rouse up the dying embers.

“You were the one who threw soap in my face first, Andrew,” he said indignantly, following the other. They crouched beside the fireplace and watched as the embers glowed brighter. Andrew tossed a few of the smaller pieces of wood from the pile beside it and shifted them around with a poker which scraped across the grey ashes. For a while, they descended into a comfortable silence, just watching the flame lick its offerings and flare brighter.

Steven put his hands out to warm them, and hopefully dry himself off. His teeth were chattering slightly from the cold, and the wind stirring outside was no help at all to his condition. Andrew spied him from the corner of his eye, and wordlessly pushed himself up. “Where are you going?”

Without answering, Andrew opened and closed some of the lower cabinets noisily. He gave asoft but triumphant “ _aha_ ”, and returned with what looked like a long and tattered afghan with red and white stripes. Before Steven could protest, he draped it across his shoulders and took a step back to look at him. _Adorable_ , his mind supplied. “You look like one of those Christmas candy canes,” his mouth supplied.

“Oh har har,” Steven grumbled, pulling the front of the afghan tighter, as Andrew laughed at him. It did ease the trembling somewhat (he was not entirely sure whether it was thanks to the afghan or Andrew), and his heart was beating just a little faster. He lifted his right arm, extending the afghan like the wing of a monstrous bird. “Aren’t you cold too? We can share,” he blurted, words jumbled together.

Andrew cocked a brow but shook his head. “It’s alright.” He sat down heavily onto the ground, not caring if his trousers became any more stained than they were. “My constitution is not as dainty as yours.” Steven swatted at him playfully for that, blushing.

At the very least, he wasn’t worried about his insomnia anymore.

* * *

Steven made it a point to visit the kitchens daily; he would pop in during downtimes, usually either after lunch or dinner, and pester Andrew who was either cooking or cleaning. He met Andrew’s older brother a few times, who was the head cook; but he was more than busy with purchasing food and tending to the gardens with their gardener, so they hardly interacted. If he found it odd that his brother was friendly with someone, not to mention an esteemed but eccentric guest, Mark said nothing.

For his part, Andrew secretly enjoyed and waited in anticipation for Steven’s visits. He liked Steven, who gave his smiles freely, his infectious laughter suffused with light, and his generosity towards everyone. He had overheard some of the maids gushing about him, how he was the perfect guest who never made a mess and was always polite. It made him feel proud, for some inexplicable reason.

It became something of a tradition of theirs to have impromptu picnics in the afternoons; right on the steps to the backdoor of the kitchen, bread and cheeses on cloth, and tea served in tall mugs. Sometimes, Andrew manages to scour fruit as well, and they would pretend to be the Greek kings of old, biting off hanging grapes; or just throwing them at each other.

With every meeting, Steven came to be able to read Andrew’s micro expressions better, knowing that his eyes gave most of his true feelings away, and that beneath the thorny exterior lay a rather sensitive soul. Andrew on the other hand, revised his mental schema of Steven being a lonely rich kid looking for refuge, into a brave and optimistic individual who was making the best of his situation. He was a natural socialite who didn’t realise it, as proved by him forging friendships even with the Bergara brothers nearing the end of his stay. Andrew saw the three of them jostling sometimes while he went out on his errands, and he ignored the sour feeling that came along with it. He was glad that Steven was able to make new friends.

_Friends, are we friends? Could someone of wealth and position even be friends with someone who wasn’t?_

When the time came for Steven to leave, he did so with tears brimming in his eyes. Ryan even gave him a big hug and ruffled his hair, something which he knew Steven did not take kindly to. Right after breakfast, Steven had made the now familiar route to the kitchens to say goodbye, but Andrew was not there. Unbeknownst to him, the other had purposely timed it so that he would be running errands at the time of Steven’s departure. (He didn’t want to see Steven’s teary face, didn’t want thelingering bittersweet note of saying goodbye. _It’s better this way_ , he told himself, even though his heart was clenched so tightly he couldn’t breathe.)

So, Steven left; and Andrew pretended that the last few months were nothing more than a dream.

* * *

He was seventeen when he heard an overly familiar voice (a voice which haunted his dreams, accusing him of callousness) in the marketplace. He swivelled his head around so fast it almost gave him whiplash, eyes instinctively searching for a head of dark hair and a wide smile. The crowd made his head spin, but he eventually caught that voice again and followed its direction. Practically jogging down the lane of stalls, he came to an abrupt halt, causing the person behind him to bump into him and curse; but he didn’t even notice, all he saw was Steven.

There was the shadow of frustration on his face as he spoke with a stall owner. “Alright, I’ll pay you the amount you need, but please promise me that you will bring it back for your family.” The stall owner nodded with enthusiasm, hands already outstretched to receive whatever fee Steven was doling out. Andrew pushed his way to them frantically, and caught hold of Steven’s wrist before he extracted the money from his pouch.

“Andrew?” Steven was shocked at his sudden arrival, and chalked up the rapid beating of his heart to it. “What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?” Andrew hissed into his ear, paying no mind to the stall owner who was glowering at him. He was obviously a conman, with his shady wares and watery red-rimmed eyes which told tellingly of alcohol abuse. “Come on, let’s go,” he said gruffly as he tugged at Steven’s wrist.

Steven however, held firm. He fought with Andrew’s grip, and freed himself enough to hand over the money in return for a poorly made clay vase. The stall owner accepted the money greedily and sang Steven’s praises, which could be heard even with Andrew dragging Steven down the street. He stopped only when they reached close to the outskirts of the town, where sheep grazed in wide verdant fields.

“You do know that he was lying to you,” was the first thing that Andrew grated out, and Steven was relieved that he wasn’t mad enough to ignore him completely.

He nodded instead and met Andrew straight in the eyes to show how serious he was. “I know.” Appraising the vase, he saw Andrew scowl at him from the corner of his eye, but ploughed on. “He needed the money.”

“So does everyone else!” Andrew exclaimed, hands bracketing his head. Steven was too generous and kind; he would easily be taken advantage of. “How could you think, even for a second, that he wouldn’t spend it all on more bottles?”

Steven pressed his lips into a thin line, fingers tightening on the vase. “I don’t, but I can take a chance on him.” He turned to look out into the fields, jaw working. “Everyone deserves chances.”

Andrew sighed heavily and let his hands fall limp to his sides. Once again he was defeated by Steven’s seemingly irrational logic. “Fine,” he muttered at length, “but if you run out of money, I’m not lending you any.” With that he spun on his heel and made his way towards the direction of the estate.

Steven smiled quietly at Andrew’s grouchy brand of worry, hiding it behind the vase. “If I needed any, I’d ask from Ryan!” he shouted down the path, which caused Andrew to bark out a laugh. He walked briskly to catch up to the other, and matched their paces, pleased that there was mirth crinkled in the other’s eyes. They continued onwards for a few more strides, before Steven slowed in his tracks and pointed into the fields with a childlike wonder in his eyes. “Can we go pet some sheep?”

Andrew laughed in staccato, and shrugged. There was something about Steven that made it impossible for him to be angry with for too long. Something which made him want to indulge his every request and throw caution to the wind. “Why not?”

Yes, there was something about Steven which was dangerous for his heart.

* * *

Steven was here on the premise of bettering his relations with the Bergara family. Seeing as their usually quiet son wanted something badly enough to come up with a proposal for, the Lims agreed that sending him there would not be detrimental in any way. In truth, Steven missed his friends, and could not wait to see them; braving even the worst rides and choppy waves.

They were all very happy to have him back, Ryan especially, who immediately roped Steven into another exploration before the latter had a chance to even unpack; much to his mother’s chagrin. She talked them out of doing so until the next day, which Steven was eternally grateful for as he felt so tired he could sleep on the spot. But not so, that he could bear to wait to see his favourite person again.

As he bounded into the kitchen, a lightness in his step which he had not felt ever since he went back home, he knocked on the wooden doorframe as was tradition. When Andrew turned to him with a small smile playing at his lips, a fizzy warmth bubbled in Steven’s chest cavity, and it travelled into his veins.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Andrew teased, turning his attention back to whatever he was cooking in a shallow pot. His hands were dusted with flour and the table was powdered with it messily.

“Shouldn’t you?” Steven ran a finger through the leftover flour on the table, liking how he could create paths in the snowy white landscape. “What are you making?”

The other raised an amused brow, a secretive smile stretching wider. “You’ll know, in time.” He covered the pot with a heavy lid, effectively blocking the sight of whatever it was from Steven’s view, to which the latter scrunched his nose at.

“You’re a sadist, a right monster.”

“I try my best.”

Steven laughed at that, soft and light, his eyes narrowed into crescents, hand covering his mouth partially. Andrew would admit to himself that he missed it. “Well, whatever you have there, it smells delicious,” Steven enthused, and Andrew felt himself blushing like a schoolgirl at his confidence in him.

He busied himself with preparing the sauces needed for dinner, in an attempt to hide it. “You can say that, after you actually taste it.”

“Oh please,” the other waved a hand in the air as a sign of dismissal. “You know I have the nose of a refined bloodhound. I know when something smells delicious.”

“Really now?” Andrew stirred chicken stock into the brown mixture. “So bloodhound, what’s in the pot?”

Steven quirked an amused smile and closed his eyes, fanning his fingers towards him as he took a deep inhale. He snapped his fingers, “Meatballs.”

“Close enough,” Andrew replied nonchalantly, knowing it riled the other up.

As calculated, Steven stuck his tongue out at him. “You are trying to kill me with curiosity here.” At Andrew’s laugh, he mock-gasped. “And you’re even laughing joyously while committing the crime! Pooh! Pooh! What a horrible person! Never has there ever been such a—-!”

His tirade was cut off by Andrew slyly stuffing a bun into his mouth. “Save it, Steven,” he laughed, while the other sullenly chewed on the bread.

* * *

Dinner was a marvellous affair, with good food and good company. Ryan was excited about their excursion tomorrow, and Steven was swept along in his enthusiasm. Watching the two banter like old friends, the other members of the family couldn’t help but feel happy for them.

One particular dish caught Steven’s immediate attention, and his fork hovered in the air for a few moments too long. “Are these,” his voice was too small, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Are these dumplings?”

Linda’s smile brightened. “Why yes, they are!” She picked one up carefully with a spoon, and lifted it slightly from the plate. “We have been served this for quite a while now, that it passed my mind. It’s a cuisine native to your region, is it not?”

“Yes, it is,” Steven replied shakily, still not quite believing what he saw. _So the smell and the flour in the kitchen, was that…?_

“I hope it stands up to yours,” remarked Steven Bergara at the head of the table, biting into one.

Taking his cue from the eyes on him, he had one and savoured its taste; remarkably similar to the ones he enjoyed eating since he was a child. Heat began to pool at the back of his eyes, and he swallowed hastily. “It’s delicious.”

“Oh, you don’t know how glad I am to hear that,” Linda cooed, patting the back of Steven’s hand.

Beside him, Ryan nudged Steven in the ribs. Looking straight ahead, he dropped a “Andrew even asked for books and lists from other cooks to make this.” Steven’s head snapped towards him, but Ryan continued spooning food into his mouth. Chewing off a piece of steak he speared with a fork,he let slip casually, “We’ve been having dumplings occasionally for a few months now.”

If he weren’t in the presence of others, Steven was sure that he would have cried.

* * *

“You made me dumplings.”

Andrew tamped down his internal excitement and feigned a coolness he certainly did not feel as he washed another dish. Yet, he couldn’t restrain himself from asking “Did you like it?” He felt more than heard the other’s footsteps on the ground coming towards him.

“It was delicious!” Steven exclaimed, hands in the air. “How did you…?” He trailed off, fingers wrung together in front of his chest. He was still mired in slight disbelief that Andrew could have perfected a dish that was not even a tad common in this area, with the help of only books no less! He blamed the fluttering of his stomach on curiosity.

The other sent him a smirk of pride, hiding his own joyous celebration that was taking place in his head. “Lots,” he stacked a plate, “and lots,” he stacked another, “of practice.” Running the faucet, he rinsed them all. “I think Ryan may be averse to them now.”

Steven’s laugh came out more strangled than he wanted it to. “You’re amazing,” he breathed, genuine and sincere. He shook his head of the disbelief.

Andrew knew his face was on fire, just as he knew that the sudden surge of joy in him was a cathartic release of all the stress and frustration he accumulated when making those dumplings; all because of the other person standing before him. “Had to surprise you with something,” he mumbled, wrenching the faucet. “What better way than to do it with food?”

“A food that I mentioned only once before,” Steven underlined, his brows in his hairline. “I’m more surprised that you remembered the tiny bit of information.”

_I remember everything you say._ Andrew shrugged, fighting the heat on his neck.

“Thank you,” Steven said sincerely, eyes glowing bright.

“You’re welcome,” Andrew returned, finding it hard to hold the other’s gaze for long, before he did something stupid and would regret.

Steven worried his lower lip in thought, taking Andrew’s soft smile as a good sign. _Well, it’s now or never._ “Why didn’t you say goodbye?” he blurted in a rush, but kept his eyes on the other’s face, searching.

Andrew’s inhale stuttered, and he gave himself time to mull over his response by hauling the dishes out of the sink and wiping his hands on his dirtied apron. _What could he even say? Should he lie to Steven? Could he live with that?_ Glancing at the other’s honest and sad gaze, he decided, _no, he could not_ , as pathetic as that may seem. He worked his jaw, conscious of the narrowness of the space between them and took a step back to ease the weight he felt on his shoulders. Noting the hurt look on Steven’s face at the action, he mentally slapped himself and rushed to answer him, “I didn’t know if we were friends at that point, and whether it was appropriate.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just a cook.”

Of all the worst case scenario answers that Steven had played over and over again in the dark nights when he was left alone with his thoughts, he did not expect this. “Appropriate?” The crack in his voice was evident, and Andrew flinched at it. “Why,…” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reopening them to an oddly distressed Andrew. Something lodged itself between his ribs, twisting hard.

“We are friends,” he said resolutely, heart pounding a mile a minute. Before Andrew could start with the whole class distinction line of thought again, Steven barrelled forward, gathering firmness in his voice. He needed Andrew to understand. “You’re not just a cook; you’re my friend. It doesn’t matter what our stations are, and it definitely does not matter what people may say behind our backs. We’re friends, and that’s that.”

Andrew blinked at him owlishly, mouth half open and gaping like a fish.

At that, Steven’s confidence wavered. “Unless, you don’t want to be, which I understand completely. I know I can be annoying sometimes, or all the time; people have talked about it before, and I don’t blame them in the slightest, I mean, I know I can talk a lot? So much so that it’s overwhelming at best, and—” He cut off his own word vomit at Andrew’s relieved laugh, and gave a laugh of his own, feeling the tension seep out of his body. “I think I need to sit down,” his legs were feeling boneless and his head dizzy.

Andrew swiftly pulled up a chair and pushed Steven down into it, giving his shoulder a firm pat. He poured Steven the leftover tea, cold but welcoming, and grinned widely at him. “So, we’re friends,” he said, tone light and excited.

Steven mirrored his grin. “We’re friends.” He took a sip of the cold tea, and made a face. Wordlessly, Andrew rolled his eyes and took it from him, dumping its contents into the sink.

* * *

“Do you think one of these days Ryan may snap and kill someone?” inquired Steven casually as he munched on a chicken sandwich, which Andrew had fried from the leftovers of lunch. The other sent him a puzzled look from his perch on the stairs to the backdoor. “He can hardly conceal his excitement whenever the topic of crimes and murders comes up,” Steven clarifies, “which is a lot.”

Andrew flicked a charred piece of chicken onto the ground. He would have to be careful about the temperature next time. “Are you afraid that you’d be one of his victims?”

Steven kicked at Andrew’s legs. “Not to say that if it did happen, I could take him, but,” he took a big bite of his sandwich, demolishing it and dusting his hands, “I could take him.”

“Chew, before you choke on it,” reprimanded Andrew lightly. “And I’d like to see you try with your,” he sent a deliberate gaze down Steven’s arms, which caused the other to shiver slightly. “Noodle arms,” he finished.

Steven narrowed his gaze at him, the start of a playful banter entering his tone. “Well excuse you, not everyone has to have,” he pointed generally at Andrew’s torso, “such thick biceps at such a young age.”

Andrew arched a brow and quirked the corner of his lips. “You think I have thick biceps?” to which Steven blushed furiously and spluttered incoherently. He laughed at the sight, feeling warm and reckless.

“Objectively, yes,” Steven forced out, cheeks still tinted a raging red.

“Objectively,” Andrew teased, flexing a little when he reached for his tea, enjoying the way Steventried to track the movement incognito.

He cleared his throat, “Yes, objectively. You could give Ryan a run for his money.”

Inexplicably, his mood curled defensively at the mention of Ryan. _You know why_ , the voice in his head unhelpfully taunted, bringing up clear images of Steven and Ryan laughing together which he spied sometimes on his errands. He brushed it away brusquely. “I’m flattered, Steven,” he sang sweetly, batting his eyelashes at the other which earned him a slap on the shoulder. “Though I am very worried about how you’re not even in the running with your severe lack of,” he paused and gestured to the other’s arms for effect, “anything.”

“Why you little twat,” Steven replied heatedly, crossing his arms. “So much for the loyalty of friendship,” he huffed in annoyance. “Dead, it is.”

“I am very loyal,” Andrew placed a hand on his chest dramatically. “I’m telling you the truth aren’t I?” Not even Steven’s death glare or his repeated kicks at his own feet was enough to deter the tentative warmth in him.

* * *

This time, he was prepared; somewhat. He met Steven in the kitchen after dinner the day before he was to leave, and they sat at the constantly messy table, picking off at the bowl of nuts late into the night. The fire had burnt to embers for a while now, but the weather outside was warm enough that Andrew could attribute the warmth he felt to it. “How long does the whole trip take?” he asked conversationally as he picked at another peanut.

Steven cocked his head in thought, struggling to open the pecan in his fingers. “A whole day by carriage, and five by sea.” Andrew thought the way he stuck the tip of his tongue out in concentration was endearing. “Then another two days by carriage, and I’ll arrive right at the doorstep of the Lim household.”

“Seems excessive.” Andrew held his hand out for the pecan, and opened it for Steven.

The other muttered a thank you, and popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s worth it, though.”

“Is it? I can’t imagine why.”

Steven allowed a slow smile to crawl across his features. “Are you fishing for compliments? I’ve never pegged you for the type.” Andrew threw a peanut shell at him, which caused him to laugh. A peaceful silence descended on them as they continued picking at the bowl of nuts, not looking at each other, but enjoying the other’s company all the same.

Andrew chewed at the inside of his cheek, sneaking glances at Steven occasionally. He could not deny that Steven made him laugh more, made him more open to the world, made him happier. _This is bad, this is very, very bad._ He pushed himself up shakily from this seat, holding up a finger to Steven’s inquiring gaze, and opened one of the side drawers where he kept most of his miscellaneous things. He returned with a closed fist held out towards the other. “Here.”

Steven held out both hands as if to accept an offering, and his eyes widened at the gift.

A beat too late, Andrew thought this was a horrible idea, that it was a poor choice in gifts, and _how could he ever think that he could give Steven anything valuable enough. He was just a poor cook_.

But the recipient had curled his fingers around the intricately twined bracelet gently, as if it were something precious; and to Steven it was. It was the first gift he had ever received from a person he could genuinely call his friend. His fingers were shaking, and his heart felt so full, and there was a stone the size of a cherry pit lodged in his throat. He swallowed around it, willing the tears not to fall. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Andrew felt as if he had been knocked on the head with a heavenly mallet. He watched with rapt attention as Steven surreptitiously wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, and slipped on the simple bracelet made of coloured twine, weaved together like how his mother had taught him to; Steven showing it off happily. “You’re welcome,” he choked out, drunk on his own sense of satisfaction and the utterly bright look on Steven’s face.

It made parting all the harder the next day, as he stood near the shrubbery of the estate gates, watching forlornly as Steven’s carriage passed him by.

* * *

Andrew couldn’t keep his eyes off of Steven, no matter how hard he tried. The guests were all bustling about, busy as bees, mingling with a sense of desperation from those of lower stations and a sense of dread from the higher. He hurriedly gathered up the dishes, one of the maids shooting him a thankful smile, before craning his head to look for Steven who had disappeared in the crowd. Not seeing a glimpse, he scowled and practically ran back to the kitchen, dumping the dishes next to the crowded sink where two maids already were furiously scrubbing.

Steven’s older brother was newly-wed, and one of the fresh couples’ first duties was to attend congratulatory parties at the houses of higher stationed dignitaries, even though they just had their own wedding ceremony; and the Bergara family was the first to receive them. Mark and Andrew had been slaving away in the kitchen non-stop, and could barely feel their feet anymore. Neither could the rest of the servants, who were all busy with unloading suitcases, cleaning up rooms, entertaining the guests. Every few moments, someone wanted something cleaned, or something to read, or something to snack on. It was infuriating, but all staff held their tongues, kept their heads down, and carried out their duties.

Mark shouted for his help, startling him out of his reverie. Andrew quickly sautéed the mushrooms in a still boiling hot pan, then moved on to plating, before a quick taste test. He nodded sharply to the waiting servant, and the latter hoisted it up the stairs and into the dining hall.

He had only caught short glimpses of Steven ever since his arrival that morning. Having been tied up in the kitchen, the only times he managed to see him was when he entered the transformeddining hall; he looked tired, more than Andrew had ever known him to be. He was worried about the heavy bags under Steven’s eyes and his ghostly pale visage, but he was also appreciative of his dress. The midnight blue coat with silver trimmings matched well with his silky maroon shirt, even though it was a combination that should not have worked. Steven pulled it off, as he does with everything.

“I’m going to get more dishes,” he announced to Mark, who only rolled his eyes and shooed him away. So what if he was using it as an excuse to be in the dining hall, to see if he could catch Steven’s eye, _to be closer to him_. He cast his gaze about the room as he gathered up the piles of dirty dishes, half disgusted by the waste these rich pigs left behind. _There!_ His mind shouted at him, subconsciously locating the other in the midst of the swirling crowd. Steven had his back pulled straight and was elucidating something to a throng of men in swallow-tailed coats, all very official looking. Andrew was momentarily mesmerised by how his hand moved to animate his points, while the other held a glass of wine steadily. Gathering the dishes, he slyly manoeuvred his way around by keeping to the sides of the hall.

“We’re not running a charity,” he caught one of the older men saying as he passed close by them. He had a hawkish manner about him, and his grey hair was a testament to how entrenched he was in ancient views. “It’s not a charity,” he heard Steven’s voice reassure, and a thrill went through him. “Take it as an incentive for the poor; they would never be able to improve their living situation without some form of financial aid,” he reasoned. Andrew didn’t hear the rest of the conversation as he was pushed further, but from the dejected look on Steven’s face, he knew it had not ended well.

He wanted nothing more than to release his hold on the dishes, let them crash loudly to the ground, who cares; and to punch the old men in their faces. How dare they dismiss Steven’s good ideas like that? He was trying so hard to help everyone, but the system stood staunchly in his way. Instead, he gritted his teeth and tried not to throw the plates in his hands at anyone as he slinked back to the kitchen.

The festivities lasted late into the night, and only stopped when it neared morning. With the guests either all asleep in their rooms or on the floor of the dining hall; Andrew felt that he could breathe again. He looked over at Mark, who was so exhausted he had slumped over in a chair with his head hanging upside down. They still had to make breakfast, but dawn was still a few hours away; they could use a much needed break. Mark had evidently been thinking along the same lines, for he asked all of them to take an hour for themselves, relieving Andrew, the maids and the servants of their duties. As Andrew closed the backdoor behind him, he saw Mark pillow his head on his arms for a nap; and closed it silently.

Outside, the air was disappointingly humid. Andrew tugged off his apron and tossed it onto the stairs, then sagged against the door, looking up at an almost starless sky. His arms felt like gelatine, and his mind was buzzing still with the low drone of the panoply of conversations he overheard. He pressed his palms to his eyes, hoping in vain that it could block out the world.

“Fancy meeting you here,” came the voice which Andrew had so missed. The whip smart retort he had prepared died on his tongue when he opened his eyes to look at Steven. _Oh, he’s absolutely beautiful_. He had his coat in his hands, legs parted slightly; and he definitely grew taller. “You’ve grown taller,” he lamely remarked instead, yet Steven still laughed like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard, bringing the back of a hand up to cover his mouth.

“And you haven’t,” Steven teased, as he lowered himself down gingerly to sit on the stairs. Andrew followed suit, not caring if his shoulder was pressed up against Steven’s, leaving no space between them. They looked out at the edge of the greenery in front of them. The humid warmth seared their arms together.

“Are you alright?” Steven asked, worry apparent in his voice as he turned slightly to run his eyes over Andrew’s exhausted form.

Andrew hummed lightly, and did the same once over on Steven. “And you?”

“Could be better,” he admitted with a shrug, looking down into his lap. “It has been very hectic.”

Andrew scoffed at that, “Understatement of the century.” He propped his head up in his right hand to face Steven. “You look like the undead.”

“Speak for yourself,” Steven laughed, swatting him lightly on the shoulder which Andrew swayed and grunted at. “I saw you a few times just then. In the hall. But you seemed busy, so,” he held out his hands in a helpless gesture.

“You looked very busy yourself,” he didn’t blame Steven for not calling out to him. He was guilty of the same. He remembered the pitch Steven gave, and how it was dismissed, then sat up straighter to look Steven in the eye. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well. That plan of yours. For what it’s worth, I think it’s a fantastic idea.”

A look of surprise flashed across Steven’s face before it settled again. “I see, so you heard that.” He began twisting his hands in his coat, a nervous gesture which Andrew had learnt to pick up on.

The cook nudged his shoulder gently, “It’s not your fault that those ancient mummies couldn’t see past their rotting noses.” Steven’s exasperated laugh echoed into the night. He nudged Andrew’s shoulder back. “Right, thank you."

Distracted as he was by the overall being that was Steven Lim _and his bright smiles and chiming laugh and how much he wanted to wrap him in his arms and not let go_ , Andrew almost forgot his manners. “Congratulations on your brother’s wedding.”

Steven grinned at him with mischief in his eyes. “Did you just remember that?” he asked teasingly, poking the back of Andrew’s hand which lay close to his own. “Maybe,” the other acquiesced, half-heartedly swatting Steven’s finger away.

Looking down at it, he noticed a faded string of colour, and instinctively reached out to touch it reverently, sending chills down Steven’s spine. His throat and chest were constricted, and he chewed on the inside of his cheek before huffing a laugh. “I can’t believe that you’re still wearing this,” he fingered the fraying twine. “You should let me fix it.”

Andrew didn’t notice how red Steven’s cheeks had become, so wrapped up in the bracelet as he was, but definitely took note of it at the sound of Steven’s gasp. “Never,” Steven announced as he wrapped his other hand around the bracelet and his wrist, holding it away from Andrew. “I am wearing this until the day I keel over and die.”

“You’re so dramatic!” Andrew aimed for sarcastic, but it came out fond and soft, and real. He pulled Steven’s wrist back to him, which the other did not let go of without a fight. After a brief scuffle of flicking fingers and sharp elbows, he managed to take hold of his wrist and reveal the tattered ends of the bracelet. “What will you do when it falls off?” he asked, gently rotating Steven’s arm to inspect it.

Steven’s arm stiffened in Andrew’s hold, and he had hoped that the other would not notice it. He licked his lips before replying as a matter of factly, “Make me a new one.” Andrew’s eyes met his, and he once again could not comprehend how they managed to change into many nuances of colours underneath different lights; how _blue_ they were in the dark, like the glowing waters of the sea. His fingers twitched with a need to touch, and he was sure that Andrew felt that.

“Every three years?” He didn’t quite know why he had pitched his voice lower, close enough to a whisper, but there it was, and it felt right.

Steven inclined his head slowly, eyes transfixed. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

_I would never mind. Not when it comes to you. Never, when it comes to you._ “I wouldn’t.”

“Alright then,” Steven swallowed, his heart in his throat, attempting to jump out of it and lay itself bare. His gaze involuntarily travelled down to the curve of Andrew’s lips, and he had to draw them back up quickly with reddened ears, but this close, Andrew caught it anyway. His hand tightened on Steven’s wrist, “Alright.”

The tension was palpable, the night was quiet, and in the little bubble they had unwittingly created for themselves, Steven felt dizzy with possibilities. The line between them was pulled taught, three years of distance hadn’t done anything to minimise it, _something had to give_.

Before he could pluck up the courage to say something or do something about it, something like _kiss me, please kiss me, I missed you so much_ ; a loud crash came from somewhere within, and someone let out a whoop of joy sharp enough to wake the whole estate. They startled apart, and Steven immediately missed having Andrew’s hand practically on his own. There was a long, drawn-out honk; then what they supposed was the drunk band starting up again. Their gazes met, and they dissolved into fits of laughter, clinging onto each other for balance as they wheezed and guffawed.

It wasn’t the result that either wanted, but they would take what they could get. After another round of insensible laughter; Andrew wiping the tears from his eyes while Steven heaved in lungfuls of air hunched over, they managed to calm themselves down enough to speak.

“Here,” Steven said, red in the face, laugh still lingering on the corners of his lips and his eyes. He pulled out a box from the folds of his coat and handed it to Andrew, who accepted it dumbly. He gestured for the other to open it, and relished in the surprise and awe that shone on Andrew’s face, a rare sight.

In it, covered in parchment paper, was the most well-made knife Andrew had ever seen. Steven punched him lightly in the shoulder. “Go on,” he urged, and Andrew marvelled at it as he picked it up. It was light, the handle made as if specially to fit his grip. There was nothing ostentatious about it, and when he tested it on the parchment paper, it sliced through it without so much as a peep. He shook his head as he placed it back carefully in its box. “Steven,” he breathed in disbelief, “I can’t accept this.”

“Nonsense! I won’t hear of it!” Steven exclaimed, pushing the box into Andrew’s stomach. “If you give me a whole speech about class distinctions again, I swear Andrew,” he fixed him with his most serious glare, “I will drive this knife through you myself.”

Andrew furrowed his brow, even though his wide grin did not dissipate. “You would be willing to kill me for it?”

“Only because you’re being silly about it,” Steven retorted smoothly, then giggled giddily. “You’re my friend, Andrew. Friends give each other gifts.” With that, he slumped against Andrew’s side, tucking his hands into his coat with a wide yawn. “And, friends help one another, especially when they are tired and are in need of a resting perch.”

Andrew laughed brightly, cradling the box in one hand, and wrapped the other around Steven’s shoulders. He allowed himself to lean against him a little, so that he could rest his cheek atop the head of dark hair. Steven smiled to himself in the dark.

* * *

The next time he saw Steven, was at the funeral of Lord and Lady Bergara. He had arrived with his family for the solemn affair clad in all black; sans his brother and wife, who were expecting a baby. Pleasantries were exchanged, condolences given. Ryan, who had been perfectly stoic the whole time, broke down in Steven’s arms. Andrew too was saddened; the Lord and Lady had been good people, but life was never fair. He could not bear to look at Jacob and his family, the two little children clinging onto their mother’s skirts tightly, confused and afraid.

They had not a chance to speak to one other then, just greeted each other with nods full of unspoken words with the weight of two years from opposite sides of the room, before Steven and his family were leaving again; they had other affairs to tend to. Andrew trailed the back of Steven’s black coat until it was out of sight, and he had never felt more alone.

He made it a point to cook up Jacob and Ryan’s favourite dishes for a month straight.

* * *

The new tutor that Jacob and Anne had been frantically searching for had finally be found. His name was Shane Madej, and the children loved him immensely. Andrew and the rest of the staff welcomed him in their own ways, sending him treats as encouragement. They knew that the children, Lilian and Mathias, could often be a handful. On his part, Shane was perfectly courteous and gentle, despite his ridiculous height.

It was also refreshing to see how happy Ryan seemed whenever he was with Shane. The staff missed Ryan’s constant pestering, but most of his time was now dedicated to a certain freakishly-tall tutor, which they did not particularly mind. Andrew placed his bet in the pool that they would be confessing their undying love to each other within the year; he knew the look on their faces well, had been aware of the same look on his face when he looked at Steven.

_Steven_. Three years had passed them by, and he heard nothing, not even a scrap of news about Steven. He was assaulted by pangs by worry whenever his mind trend over the matter again, which was more frequent than he though it ever could be. He would lay on his side in bed at night after a long day, staring at the plum-sized beetles in his quarters; thinking too hard about the worst case scenarios which played out vividly in his mind’s eye.

He cherished the knife, the only gift he had ever been given by a friend, and used it sparingly. It was a brilliant piece, and he was reminded of how Steven felt pressed against him that night, how his pulse had fluttered beneath his fingers, how he could see the want reflected in his eyes but did nothing. Sometimes, he entertained fantasies of what could have happened if he wasn’t a coward that night, if he closed his eyes and took the plunge. The lid of the box closed on the shining silver of the knife.

* * *

He heard Ryan’s excitement before he saw it. The pitter-patter of his footfalls were heavier than the children’s naturally, but it was also followed by the lumbering gait of a certain tutor they all knew. Andrew smiled fondly into the dough he was kneading for the apple pies. He was glad that Ryan had been much happier these past few months, compared to the last sight of Ryan he had seen before he went on his business trip; foot halfway into the grave, a pained and forced smile which only ever went away when he was with the children.

There was a loud slam, the doors to the dining hall he presumed, and then came Ryan’s overjoyed shout of “Steven!” Andrew immediately dropped the dough, barely remembering to cover it haphazardly with a cloth before rushing up the stairs and screeching to a halt at the servant’s doorway which led into the hall. He cracked it open for a peep, and _there he wa_ s. Steven was being hugged to death by Ryan, arms trapped and smile happily warm, as Shane stood awkwardly to the side.

Even though the distance between them was still too far for his liking, Steven’s bright laugh which reverberated off the empty walls was like a much-needed shot into his veins; he felt more alive than he did in a very long time.

* * *

“So!” Steven exclaimed, rubbing his palms together. “What scraps are available? I promise I’m not picky, Ilnyckyj.”

Andrew threw the skin of an apple at him, hitting him in the face and earning a yelp. “You’re proud of yourself for that little rhyme?”

Steven peeled the skin off his face, sniffed at it tentatively and took a bite out of it; Andrew slapped at his hand for him to stop. “That’s disgusting,” he deadpanned, snatching the soggy skin away, much to Steven’s protest of “But I’m starving, Andrew!”

The cook manhandled him into a chair, pushing a hyper Steven down and silenced him with some leftover shrimps sautéed in garlic and butter. Steven made a pleased noise as he ate, and speared another one, waving the blob of pink flesh in the air. “This is so buttery and fragrant,” he enthused, “it’s delicious!”

“Glad to hear it.” Andrew hid the blush (which appeared whenever Steven was around) in his work. He layered the sliced apples onto the pies and coated it with melted honey before settling them into the charred oven. The door of it slammed with a loud bang, and Andrew dusted his fingers. “I’ll make you something else,” he said as he turned to look at Steven with a hand on his hip. “What would you like?”

Steven swallowed the shrimp and the loud _You_ hastily, tapping his foot on the ground. He liked almost everything Andrew made, and it wasn’t due to his own bias. Andrew was a good cook, and Steven believed that he could make it as the best cook; if he wanted to. If he was out from this kitchen and the shadow of his brother. “A sandwich,” he settled on, grinning. “With pickles, please.”

Andrew returned the smile. “Alright. One serving of sandwiches with pickles.” When Steven again savoured and made vocal his pleasure with every bite, Andrew couldn’t help but reach out to ruffle his hair, a move which Steven tolerated only because it was Andrew. He then ate a pickle straight from the jar, to Steven’s disgust.

“I do not know of anyone else in my entire life, who loves pickles as much as you do,” he complained, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“You must not know many people then,” Andrew retorted, biting off another piece with a clean snap.

Steven fumbled around the table and tossed a dirty napkin at him. “Wipe that off your face. And I’ll have you know, I do know a lot of people.” He finished his sandwich and looked for a place to wipe his hands; Andrew handed him the napkin back. “I’ve been travelling for business these days.”

Andrew figured it was to be expected, him being an heir of the Lim family after all. He wanted to ask Steven so many things. Did he enjoy travelling? Did he meet plenty of new friends? _Do you lay in bed at night feeling cold and alone, waking up to your hand stretching out for someone who isn’t there?_ “You are obliged to tell me all about it, then.”

“I will,” he promised, a small smile on his face, eyes crinkled. Andrew loved it. “And I will prove to you that your obsession with pickles is most unnatural.”

He scoffed and opened both arms wide dramatically, “When I die, pickle me.” It was worth making a fool out of himself of if he managed to make Steven laugh.

* * *

Steven added to the liveliness of the household, or perhaps that was just Andrew’s interpretation of it. When he wasn’t talking walks with Ryan and Shane, or was crowded by the children, he spent most of his time with Andrew. They sat on the stairs to the backdoor mostly, and escaped to the shade of the trees during hotter days; eating scraps or fruits like they did when they were younger. After dinner, Mark usually retired after the basic meal preparations for the next day, leaving Andrew to wash the dishes and Steven to help him. They always finished that particularly dreadful chore quickly, then proceeded to lounge around; shooting the breeze or shooting empty nut shells at each other. They had both missed it; the easy interactions and familiar comfort.

“I see you’re still wearing that,” Andrew remarked one night, pointing to the bracelet barely hanging on by a thread. He felt proud about it, and also a little sad; he did not know why.

“You haven’t made me a new one,” Steven tossed another shell at him, which he received with his nose. Rubbing the sore spot, he stood up and rooted around in the drawers. Steven’s mouth dropped open. “No, you cannot be serious,” he sat up straighter as Andrew placed a new bracelet in his hand, new with a layer of dust on it.

The smile that Steven gave him was so bright, he wanted to kiss him on the spot, but marginally reigned that impulse in. He watched him slip it on next to the old one in delight, and felt an intense warmth of satisfaction settle in the pit of his stomach. “Not going to take that off?”

Steven scrunched his nose at him, hand covering his wrist and holding it protectively to his chest. “Of course not! Until it falls off, then I’ll put it in a metal box; that way nothing would erode it.” Andrew marvelled at how the words came easily to him, and how they made his heart soar.

* * *

There had been a mishap, and the oven had exploded earlier in the evening. Mark and Andrew spent hours scraping off the goo and the charred bits which coated the insides of the beast after their dinner preparations. It was horrendous to say in the least, and Andrew never wanted to see another cinnamon roll again after the whole ordeal.

Mark had retired to bed immediately after cleaning up, but Andrew felt wired. There was a tremor in his hands which he didn’t know the cause of, and it wouldn’t stop. Something itched at the back of his mind as he dumped his soppy apron on the back of a chair and scratched at his stubble. With a jolt, he realised that Steven had not come over. Not that it was his onus to, but Andrew had never known him to miss any of their nightly rendezvous (as saucy as that may sound); not even when he was running a fever.

Weighed down with worry, he wandered the halls, his feet taking him towards the guest quarters.

* * *

“I’m going to be married,” Steven confessed, and watched the shock form in Ryan’s eyes instantaneously like ice crystals. He allowed him to gape like a fish for a few moments, before continuing. “Her name is Ying. She’s from a powerful family. If we are wedded, it would mean a great alliance for both parties.”

Ryan shook his head and slapped his own cheeks once. “Steven,” he began, but the other could already sense from his tone what the topic would veer to.

“I haven’t told him,” he admitted in a small voice, and he couldn’t look at the pity on Ryan’s face. He focused on the scuffed tips of his boots instead, and sighed heavily. “I don’t think I will.”

“So, what? The next time you come here you’re going to bring along your wife and children?” Ryan bit out sharply, crossing his ams. Steven flinched. “You’re not that much of an idiot, are you? Steven, look at me. Steven,” Ryan pleaded. “You know. You know more than anyone that he loves you.”

He laughed self-deprecatingly, and it rang hollow into the dark grounds. “What do you want me to do, Ryan? I can’t change things.” He swung his heel back against the low wall they were sitting on loudly. He felt a sob working its way up his throat, and try as he might have to stop it, he couldn’t. “I can’t change things,” he sniffled, feeling the tears come.

“Steven,” Ryan said gently, and he sniffled again, feeling his shoulders shake. Ryan flung an arm over his shoulders, calling his name out softly time and again; but the world to Steven was blurry with tears. “It’ll be alright, Steven. He won’t be mad at you. It’ll be alright.” He felt Ryan pat his head, the soothing gesture too much.

He hung his head in his hands and let out the heavy sob which had been building up, which was followed by another and another. He could feel his hands trembling with fear and worry against his face, could hear Ryan shushing him gently as he rocked them back and forth. “It’ll be alright,” Ryan repeated, resting his cheek on the crown of Steven’s head.

_No, it won’t be alright. Don’t you understand? I can’t love him._

* * *

Andrew’s fists were clenched so tight, his nails which dug into his palms drew blood. Was that it then? Was everything he had ever known a fantasy? Did he imagine seeing the things that weren’t there and ignored the things that were?

He was asphyxiating, there was a loud ringing in his ears, his eyes couldn’t focus properly. He forcefully bit on his tongue to pull his gaze away; when he met Shane’s mirrored expression of horrifying realisation down the hallway.

* * *

Shane looked as dead as he felt. He came in every morning after the incident, and Andrew handed him some rolls, jam, butter and coffee without needing to be asked. He had a sinking feeling that Shane was avoiding Ryan, just as Steven was avoiding him.

There was a hole in his chest that gaped wide, empty. He read through all their interactions in his head, mulling over every glance and every casual touch, every smile. Steven was a kind person, a generous person. As that person, Andrew couldn’t see him turning anyone down; so it was more than possible then, that his skewered perceptions of Steven’s affinity towards him never happened. He stayed in the kitchen.

* * *

Steven intercepted Andrew just as he was about to leave on one of his errands. “Andrew!” He shouted, running towards the figure in the distance. “Andrew, wait!” He had half-expected the other to keep walking without looking back, but to his surprise, he did. Steven jogged the last few metres between them, coming to a stop and resting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

Andrew was silent, scanning Steven with new eyes. “Did you need something?” There must have been something in his tone which betrayed his emotions, because Steven froze and slowly pulled himself up, caution in his eyes. He wrung his fingers together, foot tapping on the ground, not meeting Andrew’s gaze. “I’m in a rush, so,” Andrew pointed into the direction of the village, hoping that Steven would take the hint and go back to wherever he came from. _Wherever Ryan was_ , the nasty voice mocked in his head.

“Oh, uh,” Steven began, scuffing the toe of his boot on the ground. “Can I come along?”

“To buy groceries?”

“Sure.” His eyes were pleading. “I need a walk, been feeling under the weather.”

_Of course you have._ He wanted to say no, but he would be the first to admit that he never was strong enough to resist Steven. “Alright, alright,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But I am not carrying you back if you faint on the way.”

Steven scrunched up his nose. _Adorable, why is he so adorable?_ “Who says I’ll faint? I’m not a damsel in distress,” he huffed.

“You’ve been forewarned.”

* * *

But of course, the heavens must have held a grudge against him. Upon reaching the market centre, most of the stalls were closed, and they had to walk all the way to the border of the village in search of some rather specific ingredients that Mark had written down in his illegible scrawl. Andrew mumbled curses under his breath the whole way, and pretend that the sight of Steven looking around with wonder in his eyes didn’t endear him in the slightest. If that hadn’t been enough to set his nerves on edge, the grey sky opened up like it was sliced by a sharp knife; pouring buckets of rain onto them.

Drenched form head to foot, he dragged Steven by the arm to seek for shelter near a hamlet of abandoned houses he knew was nearby. Their boots squelched in the mud and were almost sucked in once or twice, but they made it to one of the half-fallen in houses even with poor visibility and the wind lashing at them with a vengeance, the rain whipping into their faces. Andrew counted it as a win that no one had died.

“Are you alright?” he asked Steven, who was soaked like a wet rat, and he couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter. Steven glowered at him and wrung the hem of his shirt in a poor attempt to make it stick less to his skin. The temperature dropped rapidly, and the rain poured on, obscuring everything in a shroud of white. Andrew had an oncoming headache when his thoughts floated to how late this would make them, and how Mark would have to handle everything alone in the kitchen. He smoothed his wet hair from his face.

Heavy rain drops beat against the thatched roofs like drums, surrounding them in a wall of noise. Steven chanced a glance at Andrew, and quickly drew his gaze away when Andrew looked back; his face was burning. How should he approach this? Tact was never one of his strong suits, and to break a piece of news like this to Andrew; what would his reaction be? Dread pooled in his stomach and Steven ran a hand down his face, frustrated. Ryan’s litany of “ _It’ll be alright_ ” rang in his ears, but it wasn’t enough to make him spit it out.

The cold settled in, and pretty soon their teeth were chattering. Steven rubbed his arms repeatedly while Andrew stuffed his hands in between his armpits, grouchy as a drenched cat. “Keep moving like that and you’ll lose energy,” he muttered to Steven, who only nodded but kept his eyes forward, drifting off into his own world.He furrowed his brows. “Steven,” he called, to no reply. He reached a hand out and shook his shoulder, “ _Steven_.”

“What?” came his voice, with a tinny, faraway quality to it. Andrew shook him again and he seemed to come back into himself, blinking around. “What?” he repeated, clearer this time.

_Rip off the bandage_. “Is there something going on between you and Ryan?” On any other occasion, Andrew would have found the perfect ‘o’ Steven’s mouth made funny (and maybe even lustful, _shut up shut up_ ), but it just made his heart sink further at the confirmation; as if Steven had been caught red-handed with a hand down the cookie jar.

He lifted his hand from his shoulder, but something in Steven snapped, and he latched on to it with his own, pressing it back. His voice came out between a low screech and a pained gasp, “Why would you think that?”

It sounded like an accusation, and Andrew had the irrational need to defend himself. “Why wouldn’t I?” His tone was harsh, “He gave you a shoulder to cry on.”

Steven’s heart twisted. Andrew saw, but it didn’t seem like he knew what they said. Where was he even that night? He held out his hands placatingly, _oh if only he knew_. “It’s not what you think it is.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Steven,” he spat, and a flash of hurt appeared in his eyes. He spoke in a whisper next, “I thought we were friends.”

That did it. “I’m going to be married.” It was only the second time he had said that line since arriving at the household, but it still drove a knife into his gut. He watched Andrew’s face morph into a blatant horror, all his walls broken down. He wanted to sew his mouth shut, but the words kept coming. “Her name is Ying,” the name stuck like glue to his throat. “She’s from a powerful family. The wedding means an alliance. A strong one.” His brows were drawn tight, fingers itching to claw at his chest. “It’s my duty.”

Andrew staggered a few steps back, and Steven looked even more hurt. _He’s getting married. He’s getting married to someone else_. He shook his head, opened his mouth but no sound emerged, stared at the rotten floorboards instead. He wanted this to be an elaborate prank so badly, but he knew Steven would never joke about something as serious as this.

“I wanted to tell you. Earlier,” the last part came out strangled. “But I didn’t know how.” Now that it was out in the open, he felt so much worse. He should’ve never listened to Ryan. He should’ve held his tongue and kept his secrets; played the part of a perfect person.

“I love you.” The words cut through the noise and Steven snapped his head up at Andrew, who looked just as shocked as he did. A tumult of emotions swirled on his face, his head was a mess; but he knew what the feeling was, knew it ever since Steven asked him for pickles in his sandwich with a shy smile. “I love you,” he said more resolutely, watching Steven closely, who was bowled over by the abruptness of the statement. His face had flared into the brightest shade of red, splotchy and weird and utterly beautiful.

“Andrew,” he pleaded like a wounded animal, fingers wound tightly together.

He took a step forwards, hands lifted loosely by his sides. “I love you,” he said, knowing it was a fact, and took a step closer.

Steven screwed his eyes shut and looked upwards, praying. “Andrew, no.”

“I love you,” he took another step, and this one felt more true.

“Andrew, stop.”

“I love you,” he said with as much feeling as he could put behind it, and closed the distance between them. He brought his hands up to cup gently at Steven’s cheeks, wanting him to look at him, wanting to drown in his dark eyes, wanting him to _see_. He felt the other’s breath coming in bursts, and moved his thumbs in slow circles to ease him. When Steven did open his eyes, it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. He surged forwards through the small space between them and captured Steven’s shaking lips in his own, and it felt _oh so right_.

Pulling back, he searched the other’s eyes intently, still afraid that might have gotten it wrong somehow. But Steven wound his fingers into blond hair and pulled him back in, smashing their lips together forcefully; whimpering when they made contact. Andrew growled lowly into it, a hand coming to wind around Steven’s back and push them closer. _Closer_ , so that they won’t ever have to be apart again.

Andrew gave Steven’s bottom lip one last nip before coming up for air; their faces were splashed in red, and they panted heavily, all notion of the cold forgotten. Drained, Steven closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Andrew’s, whispering softly, “We can’t do this.”

“You don’t want to?” Andrew tightened his grip in Steven’s coat and nuzzled his nose gently.

“No, no, I do,” Steven whispered with his eyes closed, brows furrowed in pain. “I do want to, _so_ _badly._ ” He closed the space to clash their lips together again, kissing with the desperation of a man who knows his time is limited.

Andrew held him back by his upper arms when they broke apart, pupils shot and jaw working. Steven could see the gears turning in the blond’s mind, and he shivered from the intensity of his gaze. “You’re not at home,” he rasped, hands tightening. “You’re still here.”

Steven could hear the implications in those words, knew what Andrew really meant. _You’re still here. No one can tie you down here. Stay._ His heart ached as it clawed forwards, wanting to agree. “Not for long,” he said through an oncoming sob, hands scrambling around Andrew’s jaw, memorising through touch. “They’ll find me.”

Andrew knew what he meant too. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. He looked up at Steven’s wide eyes tinged with fear; the sight broke his heart, so he planted a kiss on each eyelid as softly as he could. “Stay, for as long as you can.”

He knew he was damning them both when he agreed with a soft “Alright,”, but as Andrew kissed him again, he realised needed this, even if it was only for a little while.

* * *

They shared kisses until the sky cleared, a golden yellow, rich and luscious. They held onto each other’s hands, hidden inside the pocket of Steven’s still-wet coat, through a ghostly village. Andrew gave him a firm peck on the lips before rushing to the kitchen, grumbling about how Mark would be crying for help; and Steven laughed as he returned it, fingers lingering as they unwound themselves, not wanting to let go.

The days passed quickly, and they cherished each other as much as they could within that span of time. There were casual touches in the dining hall which Andrew came up more often to; stolen kisses in the stairway and on the steps to the backdoor. They had the kitchen relatively to themselves at night, and exchanged fervent kisses, hands frantic, tongues fighting, breath mixing; desperate to know every nook and cranny, desperate to remember.

Ryan shot Steven knowing looks from time to time, and even lifted his cup up in lieu of a cheers once, coupled with waggling brows, which caused Steven to blush furiously. But he was happy, truly happy; and that was something he hadn’t felt whenever he was away from Andrew.

Though he dreaded every passing moment and wished that time would stop in its tracks; looking over at Andrew, who had learnt to make him dumplings and who kissed his fingers like he would a lady’s mockingly, yet so gently and sincerely; _yes, he was happy_.

* * *

But their arrangement would not last, they knew it from the start. Steven bit on the nail of his thumb, flipping through the pocket calendar in his room. They had a week; seven days before Steven had to return to the Lim family and be officially married to a girl whom he did not love; leaving Andrew behind only as a memory meant to be taken out and stared at with longing from time to time. What they had now, it would disappear like those bubbles.

_Unless you take the other route_. Steven wanted to be someone, for as long as he could remember. If that meant that he had to follow the rules of his family and sacrifice everything else, he was fine with it. He was more than willing to make the necessary sacrifices to attain his goals, but picking on the faded and thinned threads of the bracelet from what seemed to be ages ago, he was sure of one thing: This wasn’t a sacrifice he was willing to make.

* * *

He cornered Andrew in the kitchen at night (‘cornered’ being the operative word; it wasn’t as if they hadn’t met up in here every night since as far back as he could remember), knocking on the wooden doorframe. Andrew whipped around to face him with a ready smile, lips stretching wide and revealing teeth (and Steven loved the sight of it, loved how he was baring his true self without the walls he normally had up). The other waved him over, wiping his hands on his apron, and greeted him with a chaste kiss. Steven smiled and deepened it, cupping the other’s jaw, a little desperate, a little scared.

“I have to ask you something.”

Andrew quirked a brow, but didn’t let go of his hold around Steven’s waist. Playfully, he nipped at the other’s exposed collarbones, causing Steven to giggle in a high-pitched laugh that he now associated with him being ticklish. “What is it?”

Steven bit his lip, and slowly extricated himself from Andrew’s arms, ignoring how empty he felt. “Please don’t be mad.”

Andrew chewed on the inside of his cheek, fingers drumming on the table, betraying the undercurrent of fear and nervousness roiling in him. “I won’t.”

Steve took a deep breath, and told himself to get it over with quickly. “Run away with me.”

“What?”

“Run away with me.”

“Steven, you know that’s not possible.”

“No, it is. Look, I don’t care about what my family thinks, alright? If I stay, they will find me, that’s a fact we can’t change. And if I return, I know I would never be able to let you go.”

“So the only viable option you came up with is to run away to some unknown land? Abandon everything we have here?”

“Yes! What do we have here that’s tying us down?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The Bergara household maybe? My brother who I have to help? Do you honestly believe that I could just shuck all my responsibilities away like that.”

“I have responsibilities too. But I’m making a choice; I can sacrifice everything else, but not you. Never you.”

“… you’re not thinking straight.”

“Can’t you give things up for me?”

“It’s not about giving things up, no, don’t make this about you. You’ve always wanted to run away from the person your parents wanted you to be. You’ve never been comfortable in your own skin. And now, you have an out.”

“This is not an out! Why don’t you understand it’s—! Ugh, this wasn’t how I planned for it to go.”

“How did you plan this, then? That I would agree, we’d pack up whatever we had and just go? This is my livelihood, Steven. This is my home. I like cooking here.”

“Maybe you do, but did you ever think that perhaps stepping out of your brother’s shadow might help?”

“What did you just say?”

“You can be a great cook Andrew, even better than you are now. I believe in it, no, I _know_ it. You have so much potential, and I’m not insinuating that this is a bad place to be, but it does stifle you.”

“You don’t know anything about that. Making wild accusations will only land you into trouble.”

“As if you didn’t do the same? What do you know about how much I’m giving up for us, how much I’m throwing away my duty to my family who I cherish.”

“Don’t play the martyr here, Steven. Don’t. You hardly had the courage to tell me you were going to be married.”

“But I did!”

“After first crying about it to Ryan, then only telling me because we were stuck at the hip due to circumstance. Of course, Steven, of course you told me.”

“That isn’t fair of you.”

“Well, life’s not fair.”

“What do you know anyway. You’re just a cook.” Steven snapped up immediately, guilt flooding him even as he said those hurtful words. Andrew looked like Steven had just physically slapped him. “No, no, I didn’t mean that,” Steven pleaded, hands reaching out. “I’m sorry, Andrew, it just slipped out, I didn’t mean it.”

Andrew evaded him and stepped back, an ugly smirk gracing his features. Steven could see the walls closing in on him, drawing back up again. “So that is what you truly think of me.” Without saying another word, he slammed the backdoor closed; Steven stood where he was.

* * *

“At least you have the choice to go,” he said impassively to Shane as he peeled the potatoes. He heard the slamming of the cup onto the table and felt the tutor’s deathly glare aimed at the back of his head, but he didn’t deign it with even a flinch. It was to be expected that his nerves were frazzled, after Ryan’s declaration in the dining hall the other day. _Sounds similar to your situation, doesn’t it?_ mocked the voice which sounded like Steven’s.

“You don’t know anything,” Shane practically spat. “Don’t you dare assume that you do.”

Pausing from his work, he flashed him a dead and unimpressed look over the shoulder, just to let him know that he was being stupid. _Are you stupid as well? You two are in the same boat. You’re both afraid_. He cursed at the voice silently. “Some of us are still bound, Madej.” He tossed a peeled potato in a faded pink basket. “But you,” he emphasised, pointing at him with a thumb thrown over his shoulder, “you’re a bird who doesn’t realise it’s not in its cage anymore.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” the other growled out. The words “ _you’re just a cook_ ” were not said, but Andrew heard them loud and clear, an echo of Steven’s voice in his head which made it hard to breathe.

He hummed serenely, getting a rush from riling Shane up. If he couldn’t have his happy ending, someone else should. He wasn’t blind, had seen how Shane and Ryan were with each other, had known maybe before even they did that their love was true. “I thought you’re a tutor. You should be able to figure out that much. But yes, what do I know. After all,” he threw another potato into the basket, noting with a bitter smile that he had Steven’s knife in his hand; “I’m just a cook.”

* * *

Ryan popped his head into the kitchen, squinting at the mess on the table. He smiled at both Mark and Andrew before bounding over to wrap them both in tight bear hugs. He would miss Ryan and the boundless energy he brought to the house. Who knows how long this trip would last, especially since Shane was going with him (he was happy for them, people who he could call his friends; was glad that they made it work out where he didn’t).

Mark handed him a large bag of food, “For the trip.” He patted his back twice, wiping tears from his eyes with his thumbs; it made Ryan tear up too. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you,” Ryan smiled back, hugging Mark again.

The cook nodded and turned back to the oven, fiddling with the meat pie inside it. Ryan shot Andrew a look and gestured for them to go outside. They ended up on the steps to the backdoor, and Andrew felt an arrow of pain in his chest. He busied himself with scratching the base of his neck until Ryan frowned at him. “It’s not too late to change things, you know,” he said casually.

“I know. I know,” he sighed, and pressed his palms to his eyes. “He’s upset,” he stated, not really needing to phrase it as a question.

Ryan nodded, “He is.” He watched as Andrew pinched the area between his brows, shoulders hunched forwards. “But I think he’s more upset about what he said to you.”

He covered his mouth with his hand, as if to prevent any more incriminating words from escaping, but what was the point? Ryan knew everything, going by the look of pity on his face. “I’m upset about that too,” he admitted through his hand.

Ryan arched both brows, a grin spreading across his face. “Then you should talk to each other.” He squinted at him and patted his shoulder, smile still in place. “I think it’ll be good for you. Besides,” he shrugged, eyes twinkling even in the afternoon sun, “that’s what Shane said a good cook told him to do.”

For what felt like the first time in a long time, Andrew laughed.

* * *

Steven had an inkling that he was being tricked, but he went along with Ryan’s ruse anyway (some part of him wanted it to be a ruse, wanted to see Andrew again). He entered the gaping dining hall where Ryan said he had left a suitcase in, but of course there was no suitcase. There was Andrew.

“Steven, wait!” He caught hold of Steven’s wrist, the one with the bracelets on it (he was still wearing them, couldn’t bear to take them off, stared at them like they had the answers to everything), and pulled him into a hug which the other fought to shake off.

“Let go of me!” he shouted, pushing against Andrew’s tightening grip. “I said let go!”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no,” he spat, kicking at the other’s legs and scratching at his arms. He stopped thrashing around and stared straight into those eyes he loved so much instead, ignoring the rush of sadness. “Let go of me this instant, or else,” he threatened lowly.

Andrew steeled his voice and his grip. “I’m sorry,” he said into the small space between them, eyes holding their gaze steady. “You’re right, I was being silly,” he huffed self-deprecatingly.

Steven straightened his back, chin tilted upwards for a fight; but his traitorous heart had already begun to inflate with hope. His lip trembled and he bit on it to stop. “Don’t do this,” he said lowly. “Don’t pretend to give me something I can’t have.”

“I’m not,” he shook his head minutely, brows drawn tight for a moment before easing. “You’re perfect, Steven,” he said sincerely. “You’re the best person I know; you fight so hard for everything and you’re always pushing yourself to be better; you’re perfect,” he smiled lightly at the other. “I love you. I have always loved you, and I always will. And even though I’m far from being as good as you are, if you’ll have me,” he touched the tips of other’s fingers gently, asking for permission. “I’d like to go with you.”

Steven swallowed hard, blinking back the heat in his eyes. His heart felt like bursting, and his legs were wobbling slightly, he felt dizzy. “I’m not as good as you think I am,” he admitted. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, the memory of what he said to Andrew still fresh. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” Andrew reassured, running his thumb over the edge of Steven’s hip.

Steven’s voice was strangled with emotion as he peeked up into Andrew’s eyes. “You’ll run away with me?”

“Anytime you want,” Andrew replied, shoulders tense in anticipation, but the tell-tale signs of relief flowed through his features, rendering them softer.

Wordlessly, Steven looked down at their barely touching fingers and slowly threaded them together, hearing Andrew’s quiet gasp. He pushed his hand against the other’s, tightly. “I love you,” he said, resting his forehead against Andrew’s, feeling wet trails on his cheeks.

Andrew laughed lightly, breathed relief and affection into Steven’s face. He brought his free hand up to thumb away at his tears. “I love you too.”

* * *

Steven shuffled through the small stack of letters in his hand, tossing one at Andrew who was still lounging around in bed. The latter grumbled when he felt the sharp poke of the edge of the letter on his stomach, and Steven laughed. “Shane and Ryan are in London,” he said as he slid back into bed, next to Andrew.

“Sounds horrible,” the blond drawled, ripping open the envelope with the stamp of England on it.

Steven huddled closer, fingers already reaching for the contents of the letter. Andrew let him have it without a fight; he liked it when Steven read aloud anyway. “Do you want to go to London?”

“And leave this place?” Steven gestured around the small room and out the window where sheep were grazing. “I’m not too sure about what you think, but I rather like the wines here. Makes things… interesting,” he waggled his brows, earning a pillow in the face and Andrew’s braying laugh for his efforts.

Andrew planted a sloppy kiss on Steven’s shoulder, smacking loudly, and letting the joy he felt bubble freely throughout his being and into Steven, who giggled his ticklish laugh when Andrew worked his way to his neck. “Next time,” Andrew breathed, warm and promising.

“Next time,” Steven agreed, nuzzling into Andrew’s hair and mentally planning for their next trip already.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and for all the support! <3 
> 
> Couldn’t have written this without your kind comments and your kudos; hopefully I did the pairing and AU justice. 
> 
> Once again, please do refer to the fic in this series before this one for the full experience.


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